


In The Right Measure

by Greyella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Magic, F/F, Femslash, Gift Fic, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Post-War, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26906272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyella/pseuds/Greyella
Summary: A story in which dust is prominent, Narcissa meddles, and two stubborn witches get what they need. Sometimes it’s good to be bad. Andromione. Part of my extended MWRolliverse, albeit this is an irreverent dark sketch. Multi-chapter one shot.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Andromeda Black Tonks
Comments: 10
Kudos: 84





	1. The Things That You Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/gifts).



> Props to onidirector for this Tumblr Prompt: At Narcissa’s urging, Andromeda teaches Hermione a little dark magic. Main and chapter titles credited to Cruel to Be Kind, by Nick Lowe.

Hermione sneezed twice and then sniffled quite miserably. 

Sick of the grime, she tilted her head backwards, wiping sweat off her brow and philtrum. Done shifting yet another piece of time-warped furniture, she arched and cracked her back, muttering about killing the boy-who-lived. They both were covered in dirt and clumps of terrible. Hermione blamed Harry and rightfully so, for the sheepish wizard had sold them out, promising away their weekend and more. Then again there wasn’t much a wizard wouldn’t do for a platter of Mrs. Weasley’s pastries. And so—not without predictable groaning—the massive family clean up of 12 Grimmauld Place was underway. The Order had done it once during the war and the formidable Molly Weasley had roped them in again. 

Per their assignment—coordinated by a heavily pregnant and cranky Fleur—Harry and Hermione tackled the attic. Ron and his siblings (plus a battalion of mates and allies) were scattered throughout the house, doing much the same: chasing off magical house-pests and wrangling the house into livable order. After the war, repairs and reparations had come first, and honestly no one fancied returning to Order Headquarters for a good long time. The ancestral Black residence was steeped in memory, ones too painful to revisit while they mourned their dead. 

But half a decade later, the Gringotts goblins finally contacted House Black’s rightful heir, no longer able to hold up Sirius’ will in probate. This was a significant surprise given their heavy grudge against Order sanctioned actions, particularly those carried out by the Golden Trio (namely, Polyjuice robbery and dragon dressage). And so Molly had rallied the troops: Andromeda was moving home. 

“Oh—” sneeze, “for fuck’s sake.” Hermione howled another sneezing fit. 

Harry gave the sniffly witch a fond look and did not hesitate to move over several meters, not wanting another accidental snotting. Her hair was pinned up like their potion class days, when youth was young and waywardly tinged. And though Harry’d never tell her, each day passing she acquired more of Minerva’s mannerisms, a bit of acquired brogue included. The faculty posting at Hogwarts had been good for Hermione and wore well on her frame and brain. For a while after the war, Harry wasn’t sure his friend would ever regain that shiny piece of herself. 

Time was said to be the great equalizer, but Harry wasn’t convinced.

Regardless, a bit of normalcy was welcomed and not all reversion was bad. Both parentless, Harry and his sister-witch appreciated Molly’s mothering. A dad himself now, the matriarch still brought out Harry’s awkward adolescence. And despite parting romantic ways with Ron, Hermione enjoyed the showers of affection from Mrs. Weasley, eternally thankful that their bond remained the same. So sure they groaned and moaned, but underneath it was love. 

The dust clods in the attic were rabid and they both resembled their childhood selves, dirty and solution-focused. Neither had been able to dislodge the dust magically; they’d already tried thrice and the semi-sentient house hadn’t taken to kindly to that. Not to mention, of the household helpers, they were the most skilled at using a broom. Harry had been bemused at surprised Weasley faces when he and Hermione brought back several brooms from the muggle hardwood shop (these, amongst other useful items). In the Wizarding World, apparently brooms were used exclusively for Quidditch. How he and Hermione were grown adults before learning this horror was a feat unto itself. Despite that oddity, the muggle chore was comforting to them both, and so they coped and cleaned the old-fashioned way. 

That said, they’d severely underestimated the amount of dust and the house was obstinate, only letting them clean quadrant-by-quadrant. House Black had a rigid sense of decorum and refused to let them sweep any quadrant that wasn’t set back to right first. This, of course, was subjective and the finicky house let them know when they’d guessed wrong. A few hours later and the dance grew stiff—the house was a rather wooden partner—and Hermione was thoroughly miffed with its shivering wood, throwing dust-fetti in her direction. 

They both eyed the window wall with some trepidation. 

That bloody trunk. 

Early on, they’d given up on the relic and left it for last. Letting Hermione set the attack, Harry blew a puff of air up towards his glasses, dislodging a poof of particles. Hermione shot him a look but kept quiet, a bit more empathetic now that she wore lenses as well. Sighing, the witch approached the last stand: that innocent looking trunk. Several decades of sunray had bleached it from navy to power-blue, and fashioned with woodsy wood and leather, it was meant for storage, not traveling. Feeling a bit wary, Hermione drew her wand and commanded the stubborn truck to the far wall, a placement they hadn’t tried yet. She and Harry held breath, watching the trunk shimmy into place and try the floorboards on for size. The attic seemed to settled and Hermione—CRACK—jumped. 

Another confetti of dust bunnies rained down. 

“Well fuck you too,” the boy-man-wonder muttered at the offensive trunk—once again—back where it started under the paned window. “What’s in the bloody thing?”

Hermione let out a string of expletives and stashed away her wand. She favored vine for the every day mundane, the connection to her eleven-year-old-self comforting. The witch cracked her neck nervously and kicked herself for not bringing her hornbeam backup (a wand that was a perfect conduit for trickier conditions). Rustling in her pocket (spelled with an extension charm) Hermione paused and steadied herself, as her magic trembled eagerly and strummed for home. Her fingertips brushed blessed wood…that curved walnut wand vibrating its dragon heartstring. The house was curious at the familiar vibrato and suspended its dusting. The witch tasted pine on her breath. The taste was addictive and Hermione drew the wand, its curve distinctive and unyielding. Her eyes fluttered shut, sensing the pull of approval as the house welcomed Bellatrix’s prized possession home. 

Harry raised a brow, deciding not to comment. 

He understood the appeal of spares, having used the Elder Wand for a contested period of time and being very fond of the blackthorn always stashed in his back pocket. Secondary wands were typical for prodigious magifolk and Hermione certainly was that. Tertiary ones were a bit rarer but well suited for the academic world. Harry knew Hermione had kept the infernal thing but still flinched as she wielded it now, expertly. Her were mannerisms extraordinary, much like another witch now long dead. Wands were a bit like horses; left to their own devices they followed specific paths. Whatever spell Hermione crafted, it was wordless, coaxing the trunk to reveal its secrets instead of randomly forcing a new location. Harry trained his own wand on the target in case things went awry, but with a satisfying SNAP and flurry of purple magic, the trunk righted itself…just a few inches left of where it started. 

Without ceremony, Hermione sneezed again, her wand letting off a sultry trail of red sparks. Not meeting Potter’s eyes, she sheathed Lestrange’s wand and switched back to her vine. 

“Well,” Harry said underwhelmingly, “fickle is as fickle does.”

“No,” Hermione said quietly. “It just wanted to go home. I need—Harry, please sweep the last of it. I need air.” 

And with that the witch swept out the room, leaving the wizard with a rotting feel to his stomach and trepidation in the lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R & R, dearies


	2. Wit's End

Hermione munched on a banger and flicked hard Harry on the leg.

“Stop your staring,” she said hostilely, “I’m fine.”

Ignoring her well-meaning and hovering friend, Hermione emphatically took another helping of steamed veggies, her ladling rather aggressive. Supper at Grimmauld was a lively affair, the table crammed with dishes and the delicious roar of company. The wine overflowed and the old Order had already gone through a score of bottles. Happily, the gang regaled each other with the humor of the day.

“—shoulda seen how fast he ran, lamp hangin’ off his arse,” Ginny cackled, gleeful as Percy turned beet red.

“Language, Ginerva!” came from the kitchen, Molly bringing out yet another course (beer-battered cod this time).

But the damage was done and the Weasley brood got good entertainment out of that for another five minutes. Minerva had a hard time hiding her smirk as Teddy and Victoire joined in, happily shrieking, “Arse! Arse! Arse!” with great glee. Molly glared at the headmistress, only backing off when McGonagall raised a formidable eyebrow. All in all, it was good rambunctious fun.

“Wonderful,” Andromeda drawled throatily, swirling her wine before sipping a smirk. “That’ll never go away.” Children were fun like that.

The night was good, healthy like sun.

Even Andy seemed at ease, her wit flowing and her aura less imposing than usual. It’s not that the witch wasn’t approachable but there was a royal sense of movement that her presence carried, lingering like castle felled and thorn covered. Formidable in her own right and quite the purveyor of mystery, the specter of Bellatrix lived in her angles and laugh, although nothing else much resembled. The sheen to the witch’s mannerisms that silked differently from the rest of them, like wolf playing tame, confident in its canines and lack of assimilation. It was a fascinating grace and the reason why Andy was never blended into any crowd.

Andy was one of them—had been for decades—but she had tendency for distance, making time and space feel like everything forgotten.

Loyal to the Light, Hermione had never seen Andy waver. The wardbreaker was a Black and did not hide her heritage. She displayed her faults front and center and never pulled back on her timbre. Hermione was fond of Andy’s quirks and quarrels, liking that the witch shirked neither flaw or fire. Yet, for all their shared spaces and history, Hermione didn’t know the woman beyond her public persona. She’d glimpsed it, of course, right after the Battle of Hogwarts when the miasma of fresh death still climbed around them.

Haunted by her daughter’s untimely death, Andy had gathered Hermione up in a grimy embrace, casting frantic diagnostic spells to reassure herself that the Golden Girl had escaped a similar fate. Exhausted by grief and relief, the Gryffindor had clung to Andy’s bone and muscle, the solidity of the woman both terrifying and safe. After that, they had comfortable silences and books that traded between them, never spoken about. Last year, during a particularly demonic month for Hermione, an owl delivered dried sage to her window, a coveted preparation at that. The note hadn’t been signed but the residuals had Andy written all over it.

And yet, to date, the Gryffindor was unsure if she’d ever had another explicit moment with the witch alone, beyond that of funeral sentiments and those in fond passing. Hermione was, however, quite sure that the depths of that woman were rich as the ocean floor, ripe with danger and life. And extol her soul, but Hermione flushed at the thought of swimming. These days the trio was a steady fixture in Teddy’s life; Harry’s pride for his godson a welcomed light. And as such, Andromeda was an evergreen presence in her own life, with Hermione unable to articulate what that did to her insides.

“Wotcher, Hermione, you’ve gone quiet,” Arthur boomed, shoveling mash in mouth quite like his youngest son. “What tales did the attic tell?”

“Dust bunnies, mostly,” she smiled. Arthur had a way of including her that was familial and genuine. “We found a stash of hats that’d disgust even Augusta Longbottom.”

“Only you could omit a battle with a demon trunk.” Harry snorted, ribbing his sister-witch gently.

“Say whattt,” Ginny sounded around a mouthful of chicken, voicing the table’s sentiment, however grossly.

But then the door banged open and conversation dropped fast as a bedraggled Narcissa Malfoy stumbled in, convenient lightning silhouetting her form. Thunder roared its lion and the entire gaggle jumped, having forgotten that Grimmauld’s wards deafened the roiling storm outside. The elegant witch let the wind push her into the homestead and then smartly wanded the door shut, with a groaning thud. Her slicker was drenched but Narcissa herself repelled water. Hermione knew it was a charm, but even the summer sky would have avoided mussing the witch’s splendor. She blanched at her own thoughts and chugged her water, pulling Minerva’s curious brow and Andy’s amused gaze.

“Cozy,” the blonde murmured toward the small crowd. “Outside not so much.” Narcissa hung her slicker by the door and ignored the Weasley brood in favor of her sister. “Meda, the roses are downtrodden. Spelled them, but it won’t last past midnight.”

“I’ll re-dirt them in the morning,” Andromeda said, gratefully. “There’s a witch down the lane with a magic thumb. Has the best infused soil in town.” At Hermione’s curious brow, she added, “To combat rain with gusto.”

Andy had already risen from the table and embraced her sister carefully, the history of a million horror stories between then. Narcissa let a quick quirk onto her face, and fingered Andy’s lose curls with a wistful expression.

“Welcome home, Cissy,” Andy murmured a flurry of magic, extending something the rest of them didn’t understand. “Yes, wine too.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what magic had passed between them but she nearly jumped out of her seat, feeling the residuals. She must have made a noise, because Narcissa caught the sound and startled at her reaction. Looking around, Hermione determined that no one else seemed affected, though Minerva soothed her arm with a quick pat. By this point, Teddy had joined the sisters’ hug, the kiddo excited to see his aunt and hugging her knees happily. Narcissa tousled his blue hair fondly.

“What’s she doing here,” Ron grumbled, not so quietly.

“Mr. Weasley,” Minerva snapped, beating Andromeda to it. “Stuff your face with another potato.” More kindly, she welcomed the former Miss Black. “Tea’s on the stove, Cissa.”

Hermione wasn’t surprised as Narcissa kissed Minerva’s cheek with great fondness, but the rest of the room appeared stunned (George’s mouth actually hung open). With Hermione’s addition to Hogwarts’ faculty, so came a more adult relationship with her mentor. She treasured their talks and training sessions, and had learned a great (yet shrouded) deal about McGonagall’s complicated fondness for the Black sisters. Albeit, there was much her mentor left unspoken. Hermione wondered at those mysteries now, as Mrs. Malfoy sought some kind of resolution from the headmistress, sky-blue eyes searching her mentor for answers. Minerva bussed the witch’s cheek and whispered something meant for that ear alone. From the blonde’s stance, whatever she had hoped for had been unsuccessful.

Years after the war, despite all she’d done, Narcissa still broke the bonhomie of any room she entered. As their embrace ended and the potioneer made for the kitchen, Hermione was annoyed with her family for perpetuating this absurdity. The woman lied to Voldemort’s face and single-handedly turned the tide. Kicking George under the table (to resolve his still gaping mouth), she accidentally met Andy’s eyes as the widow poured her sister a glass of Pauillac. The attention was pleasantly unsettling and the Gryffindor turned a similar color, demurring her gaze from the witch and the wine. Andromeda cocked her head in contemplation, her angular features kind and wolfish.

Conversation resumed, albeit stilted, and a comfortable clinking came from the kitchen, the sound of milk being stirred into brew. Narcissa waded back to the dining room and took a seat next to Andromeda, who randomly chuckled as the witch settled in.

“Out of my thoughts, Meddy. It was only a memory,” Narcissa scowled at her sister, but followed through. She kicked her boots off, satisfied as they smacked the foyer wall. Bellatrix wasn’t here any longer, so Cissa did the deed in her honor.

“Then don’t think so loudly, dearie,” Andromeda drawled in memoriam, her tone running shivers down Cissa’s spine. Hermione’s as well. Silence was quite a quiet power when wielded expertly and neither sister gave an explanation for…anything.

“So,” Bill coughed. “How ‘bout them Chudley Cannons?”

The rest of the table was also unskilled and Ginny rolled her eyes. She grabbed the horns and prompted her husband for help.

“Demon trunk, you said?”

Taking his cue, Harry picked the conversation back up (or attempted to), nodding his head eagerly while trying to swallow a mouthful. Amused by the exchange, Andromeda took pity but enjoyed a bit of fun.

“Grimmauld Place has always been a bit of a horror show,” she said, “This is Black territory after all, or did you lot forget?”

Narcissa snorted while the second-war generation ate their tongues, unclear how to respond. Molly sighed and wanded more alcohol from the kitchen, snagging some peach nectar for Fleur as well. The Veela seemed content to observe the clusterfuck and not partake, though she glanced at Hermione knowingly and offered allyship by keeping her mouth shut. Glad for the pinot, Hermione poured herself another hearty glass and hoped this conversation wouldn’t go poorly. Minerva took it upon herself to intervene.

“Godric’s sake, Andy,” the headmistress brogued with some amount of diatribe. “Mind your sass, they’re not used to you being quite so you.” Her chortle softened the delivery and Andy toasted the headmistress’ check-and-balance, her sultry smile comfortable in a room full of uncomfortable guests.

“Forgive me,” Andy said, not sorry at all. “Cissy and I spent enough time here as children to understand its style. Tell me what you saw and I’ll tell you what it meant.”

“Well,” Harry began slowly, “the attic was opposed to a good dusting until its furniture was restored to proper place. Nothing our Hermione couldn’t solve,” he said winningly and she could have kicked him for it. In fact, she may yet still.

“Ah, I’m sure.” Narcissa agreed regally, her face impassive, her eyes interested. “One of the old ones spelled this place from tip to top.” She traced her teacup with a delicate finger, peering at the boy-now-a-man-who-lived.

“Right,” Harry said, deciding that bickering with Draco was less intimidating than this calculating volley. Especially with Hermione breathing quiet fire by his side. “But one of the trunks was…er…less than accommodating.”

“I’m getting pie,” Hermione said too eagerly and got up. “Anything for anyone else?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said knowingly. “You…there. Now sit.” Her attention never wavered from Harry and without looking she wanded the requested pie into the airspace above the table.

If the rest of the table was bemused, they didn’t question the blonde’s authority. The serving knife took a generous portion and laid it effortlessly on Hermione’s plate. Looking to Harry for help, he shrugged, wide-eyed and not willing to counter a pie-wielding witch. Minerva was of no help either, her intentional silence beyond telling. The headmistress did pat her hand, as if predicting the course. Feeling like a student herself, Hermione sat back down and contemplated stabbing Harry’s thigh with her fork. Instead, she ate humble pie, deciding that Molly’s very-berry-extraordinary confection was at least a good last meal.

“Do tell, Miss Granger,” Narcissa queried, not unkindly.

“Harry was doing just fine,” she sniped back, verve swirling her veins. “And somehow I don’t think you need an explanation.”

Molly gasped in dramatic protest, professing to have never heard such rudeness from her adoptive daughter. The rest of the table, however, was unfazed, having paid witness to Hermione’s legendary temper either in the classroom or in battle.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said again firmly, sending a wave of magic towards the stubborn woman.

Hermione shuddered as it hit softly, breathing easier as the charm soothed her…everything. Her eyes fluttered shut and the tingles that’d been itching her fingers and brain were less loud. Volume now controlled, she let the world back in and opened her eyes, finding a lot more patience than she expected.

“There we go,” Andromeda murmured. “Have at it, Cissy. You were always better at…this.”

But her eyes were keen on Hermione’s and held the witch steady. Distracted even. The Gryffindor clung to it, even though the intimacy was heart stopping. Andromeda was hard to pin down, her expression immortally caught between ethereal and ether; night renting to faeries, choosing both shine and warble.

“Feel better?” Narcissa asked the witch, wanding over a second slice of pie before Hermione had finished the first.

“Confused mostly,” the Gryffindor said honestly. But she ate the damn pie.

“To be expected,” the blonde waved this off. “But to the trunk.”

Narcissa sipped her wine expectantly and Hermione was sure no one in their sane mind had ever denied this witch anything. Her fists were clenched, but she told the telling, her eyes delicately avoiding Andy’s. Or trying to.

“As Harry said,” Hermione said carefully, “it took some maneuvering and we couldn’t get it right.” As if on cue, Harry picked a hidden dust bunny out of her curls. Narcissa smirked in understanding, as did Andy, though her smile was less wicked. “So I tried a different approach,” Hermione underplayed.

“So you did,” Andromeda muttered, her eyes lidded with untamed emotion. “May we see it? She was our sister.”

By this point, most folks were lost. Minerva however, spat out her wine. Quick as a quail, Narcissa wanded up a minor shield and the backsplash unfortunately landed in Harry’s lap. He winced and mourned his favorite trousers. His wife tried not to laugh and wanded him dry, but Ginny’s interest was fascinated by whatever was dangling on the precipice right now.

“Oh _ghrá_ , you didn’t?” The headmistress was horrified and brogued in her protégé’s direction.

“Why wouldn’t I,” Hermione asked indignantly, “None of you seemed worried when it went missing five freaking years ago.”

“Someone tell me what the bloody hell you’re on about,” Ron complained in good humor. “I’m all for Harry getting the short end but you’re talking code.”

“Funny you should reference a stick,” Narcissa silked, tangentially acknowledging the wizard, her attention focused solely on Miss Granger. She allowed a rare intimacy to seep through her icy front. “If you’ll allow it, Hermione, I sincerely echo Meda’s sentiments. I know Bella treated you terribly, but we loved her dearly, each in our own way.”

Hermione regarded the Black sisters: Narcissa deceptively calm, her emotion belied by trembling hands wringing out the love of a lifetime. Andy downing wine, her honeyed eyes roving Hermione’s form, surveying her morality and other attributes. Sighing, Hermione pulled out Bellatrix’s wand, tip down. The curved form was familiar in hand, buzzing with the adventure of a thousand spells not yet cast. Preemptively, Andy banished the dishes to the kitchen sink, allowing Hermione to place it gently on the unmarred tablecloth. The wand wood was stark against the white and the table gasped quite predictably, though Narcissa sighed with relief.

“Frigging hell, mate,” Ron swore. “You kept the bloody thing?!”

“It chose me,” Hermione whispered. “It feels wrong to be without it.” Minerva squeezed her shoulder supportively and the Black sisters seemed a bit more complete than usual.

“Aye, darling, we understand,” Andromeda whispered back. “Molly, would you…” she said vaguely.

Despite herself, the Weasley matriarch cleared the grumbling lot out of the dining quarters; this a conversation that deserved a bit more intimacy. She’d weasel the details out of Andromeda later. Mrs. Weasley herded her brood and extended family out the room, until only Hermione, Minerva, and the sisters remained.

“Perhaps the study?” the headmistress suggested to her three former students, the absence of Bellatrix more heartedly in her heart than usual.

“Right here is fine,” Andromeda said sharply, her tone less helpful than Narcissa’s. The blonde tried to calm the witch, but Andy wouldn’t have it and got up to steam. “Have you any idea the danger you’re carrying around in your pocket? That wand has a history you can’t begin to imagine.”

“I don’t have to,” Hermione snapped right back, feeling infuriated. “I feel it every time I cast. You think I don’t know its power? How many witches have been cursed by the very wand they wield? I know exactly what it’s capable of.”

Andy’s eyes widened and she looked to her sister.

Narcissa sighed heavily, her anxiety radiating. Minerva took the precaution to ward all the houseplants in sight; one couldn’t be too careful with Cissa’s elemental powers; they had a habit of rearing their temperamental nature during turbulent times. As it was, the headmistress, sent a calming spell towards the Narcissa and the blonde shivered as it enveloped her bones.

“Speak it now, sister, I’ll not stand for your clever omissions.” Andy grew impatient.

“When we reconciled, you didn’t want to talk specifics,” Cissa reminded Andromeda pointedly. “This was a specific.”

“Oh you don’t fucking say,” steaming, Andy bottled that up for another day. To Hermione she was calmer. “But why you didn’t say, is another matter.”

“Andy, cut the witch some slack.” Minerva said reasonably. “You didn’t confide shite to me your entire Hogwarts career. Youth is a weapon all its own.” Andromeda had the sense to look abashed at this, conceding reluctantly to the headmistress’ wisdom.

Emotion had mostly run its course and the three witches now looked to Hermione.

“I…” the Gryffindor started, breathing hiccup and shaky depths. At that, Andy looked dismayed and regretful.

“…think the study is a good plan after all,” Narcissa prompted. “If you’re anything like the former witch of that wand, then books will be a good bit of solace. Go with Andy. Min and I already know the way.”

And with that, Narcissa apparated (Minerva a tick tock behind). That left Hermione and Andromeda alone in the dining room; the table, the wand, and everything else between them. Forlorn and on the defensive, Hermione huddled into herself, into her chair. She felt a breeze and startled at the gentle touch on her cheek. Andy face was close and the Gryffindor was trapped by amber.

“Hermione,” Andromeda murmured. “You were Nymphadora’s confidante then and are Teddy’s godmother now. A friend. Did you think you weren’t family?”

The Gryffindor blushed, having not considered that. She reassessed. It wasn’t that she and Andy hadn’t built camaraderie, just not one based on words; mostly the comfort of tea and silent compathy. And now, Andromeda pushed for the unspoken and placed the curved wand back in its witch’s eager hand.

“Tell me how it feels,” she ordered, more than a bit of Black in her throat.

“So good,” Hermione breathed, her eyes lighting with pretty addiction. The Gryffindor was parched, her throat dry with the scratchings of brilliant insight. “Grateful. Cursed.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Andromeda said hoarsely, kneeling next to the witch. “Never in a million would we have left you alone to deal with such a…bonding.”

“You were sad,” finally Hermione cried out, her face hot and sticky. “Everyone was either mourning or dead. No one wanted to deal with loose ends and I…” she flushed with color, as she always did when Andromeda was near. “It was the only thing that felt wonderful and I was afraid they’d take that away. I couldn’t have that. Not when I needed to understand her, when I needed to understand myself.”

“Look at me,” Andy commanded, thrilled when the witch did so without question. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in the past, but for future reference no one will take anything from you that you don’t freely give.” Paining at the look on her young friend’s face, she wiped away a rogue tear. “This is Black territory and well…you’re looking at the queen of the Blacks. What’s left of them anyway.” Meda stood and stepped back, holding out her hand.

Hermione unfolded from the chair and shakingly resheathed her wand. Uncertain, she gazed back at Andy as if waiting for the hand to be rescinded. Andromeda remained unmoved, though her eyes flashed something wonderful.

“Hermione,” she said expectantly and the woman ran to her, the hug fierce and unexpected. The witch buried in her arms, Andy apparated them away, unsurprised when the magic smelled like Bella’s, but tasted new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R & R, dearies.


	3. Take Another Heartache

“Absolutely not,” Andromeda insisted, draining her whisky. 

“Oh get off your horse,” Narcissa sniffed, preferring brandy. “There are better ways to get high.” She tipped out a book from the case and spelled it to her sister, the delivery laced with annoyance. “Start with this, Granger will appreciate the theory in this one. The wand has chosen and there’s no sense in not training her.”

“There’s plenty of sense,” Andromeda deflected (the book to the settee, as well). “We fought an fucking entire war about it. Training Hermione in the dark arts is mad, so pardon my sanity.” Her teeth bared and the Blackbond twinged between them. Unlike with Bellatrix, Narcissa felt no desire to yield. 

It was indicative of Minerva’s comfortability that she dozed off in the armchair, happily curled around a wine bottle, and content to let the Black sisters duel things out on their own. Years earlier, she might have worried and stressed over their Black magic, but time had been a good teacher in understanding their family dynamics. The witches had long sent Hermione to bed, the woman exhausted from the draining day and dinner revelations. 

And of course, nothing had been resolved. 

“Magic is neutral and most dangerous when out of control,” Cissa reminded sternly, frustrated that Andy continued to let emotion overrule her mind. “Teaching that control is imperative, because next time it won’t be a trunk she’s magicking. Miss Granger is already touched by dark; ignoring that problem causes bigger problem.”

“Yes, well, we can blame you for her indoctrination,” Andromeda hissed cruelly, let their wartime loyalties flash ugly. “Did you play wallflower while your dearest Bellatrix tortured the witch? Or was there more cheer than that?”

Done with pleasantries, Narcissa hexed her sister, her emotion wielding without wand. Andromeda blocked the purple flash but not by a landslide. She quickly struck the witch back with a stinging hex, satisfied as it hit Narcissa’s side and tripped the blonde, stripping her elegance. Blocking Cissa’s icy retort, Andromeda narrowly sidestepped the body-bind jinx that was hissed her way. The brunette returned fire, but Narcissa ducked and was primed, having already called the corner ficus to her cause. It grew curling vines and eagerly restrained the elder Black, putting a quick end to the spat as it gagged Andromeda. 

Nose to nose, the sisters’ anger mingled. 

“You may be queen now, but do not forget that I ruled at her side longer than you. Go on, spit on Bella’s grave if you must but she’s the only reason we’re alive,” Narcissa said dangerously. Her rare metamorphic powers curled her hair and purpled her eyes. “I’m not here to argue past and how it came to be. There were other forces at play. You’re only mad that even in death and after all that has passed…Bellatrix still loves me best.” That was another story altogether. Cissa fingered the Blackstone on her neck, drawing calm from the family tapestry and remembering what Bellatrix had charged her with all those years ago. Andy remained enraged and entwined by vine, and the blonde returned to her soft-spoken power. “The least I can do is ensure that your witch is safe, the best way we know how.”

“Muyff wutff?!” Andy mumbled indignantly.

With some amount of amused pity, Narcissa let the vine gag stand down. It had been unintelligible, but sisters understood speech even with a full mouth.

“I said what I said,” Cissy sing-songed, her sibling grin all too happy to tease. “Granger’s fancied you since before I joined the New Order, as far back as her school years if you listen to Minerva tell it.”

“She was Dora’s friend,” Andy hissed. “You’re quite mistaken.” Ripping the stubborn vines off, she stalked towards her sister, her heartbeat double-time. 

“Ah ah,” Narcissa smirked and pressed further into their shared power. “You protest too much. I can taste the mutuality on your magic.” Not afraid of Andy’s wrath, she cupped the witch’s face. “Take the happiness. Salazar knows you could use some.”

“You’ve always been bad at leaving the shadows alone,” Andromeda sighed, her forehead falling on Narcissa’s shoulder. “You of all people are the worst to have this conversation with.” 

“Is it her blood or the gender?” Cissa queried softly, ignoring their history and patting her sister’s head. “I’ve never known you to discriminate for either. You left us for Ted, after all. And you’ve…indulged quite thoroughly in the other.”

“She’s golden, Cissy,” Andy whispered.

“And you are a Black, despite your imagined break for a few decades,” Narcissa countered. “I didn’t say that there weren’t risks, but you aren’t doing anyone favors by ignoring her affection or your desires. I invite you to recall what happens when powerful witches are left to fester in the dark.” Her voice wavered with heartbreak all too clear and her eyes changed again, the exact shade of Bella’s. 

“You can’t fix that with this, Cissy.” Andromeda said kindly, wrapping her baby sister in a hug. 

“No,” the blonde agreed. “But I can prevent further disaster. Help me.”

Silence fell between the sisters and Andy sighed. Her baby sister had won before they’d even begun, though it had been fun to inflame Cissa into plant antics. Her magic sent an agreement through their veins, long before her words did. Narcissa bussed her cheek, too pleased to be annoyed at Andy’s games. 

“I suppose I’ll be happy then,” the brunette groused.

“Quite.” Narcissa almost smiled. “One of us should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R & R, dearies.


	4. Off The Ground

“Come again?” Hermione sputtered, and stared at Andy, wondering when the wax in her ears had gone rogue.

“You heard her right,” Narcissa said patiently from the corner settee. Nose in a potions book, she sipped her morning pick-me-up. “You picked up the wand and it picked you back. Time you learn to wield it properly, lest it wield you instead.”

“And ballroom dancing is the way to do that, is it?” Hermione said scathingly, her fingertips itching.

“Quite,” the blonde said, placidly turning another page. “Unless you’re pining for a sharper activity?” Her hand gesturing to the witch’s arm, scar as red as its carving day.

“Why are you even here?” Hermione hissed. A flood of orange magic sparked from her hands and Cissa wrangled it easily, never even looking up from her book. Minimal effort was the blonde’s specialty, especially with a breakfast Bellini still fresh on her tongue.

“Because,” Andromeda drawled, “Narcissa is skilled at reigning in the family magic. And while you aren’t a Black, your wand most certainly is. Or perhaps you would rather light us all afire.”

“It is an option,” Hermione said dully, imagining several scenarios.

Narcissa’s unrestrained laughter lit the room, startling her companions. Andy’s face shifted to surprised wonder and Hermione forgot to maintain her petulance. The sound lifted her spirits, despite her internal protests.

“Gosh, _étoile_ , you sure know how to pick ‘em,” the blonde quipped conversationally, the wand jumping agreement in Hermione’s hand.

“Woah…” Hermione went wide-eyed.

“As I said,” Andy drawled, “your wand is Black. Properly it’ll take years to explain and we need to help you through fundamentals now. Can we agree to table that sorry saga for now?”

Hermione flushed, at the idea of doing this for years. Out of the corner of eye, she thought she saw Narcissa give her a thumbs-up and wondered when the world had gone irreverently mad. Once again, Andromeda extended her hand and waited, her eyes both serious and playful. Hermione sighed, accepting this fucked fate of awkwardness. She’d never been graceful in the dancing arena or otherwise and Andy’s proximity certainly wasn’t going to aid her efforts.

But she took the hand and let the dance begin.

The lesson was a battle, less against Andy and more against her own form. It was a rough start but once she gave into Andromeda’s warmth against her, things moved ahead, albeit not swimmingly well. The dancing, Hermione discovered, was a surefire way to practice sturdy form and improvised tactics, both crucial to spellcasting.

It also was entirely arousing.

Randomly, Minerva poked in from the hallway, voicing her amused approbation with a wistful tone. “She’s raw but better than most. Familiar,” the Headmistress quipped and left as abruptly as she’d come.

Andy ignored the narration, but Hermione swore that Narcissa’s chin dipped slightly in response. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of her mentor’s comment; another one of those oddities that they all kept to themselves. Whatever it was, it hadn’t pleased Andromeda and Hermione felt the witch’s form tense up.

“Very good,” Narcissa muttered faintly. “Think of how you could use that, were it a duel not a dance.” A beat or two went by. “No, dear, that’s not quite what I meant,” the potioneer chuckled, “but she’ll not be opposed to that either.”

It was a poorly kept secret that Andy had the Sight, whilst Narcissa had a talent for casual mind-reading. Still, Hermione hadn’t expected her walls to be so thin, so easily breached by the youngest Black.

“Cissy,” Andy had hissed warning, “Not now.”

“Tell me then, when?” Raising a brow Narcissa stood, quite fed up and unwilling to bear the room any longer. “Salazar’s sake, Meddy, kiss the witch before someone beats you to it.” Quite like somebody else, Cissy chuckled fiendishly and took her leave. Her gait lilting like her tongue, she left two red-face witches alone…to deal with the aftermath.

They didn’t deal with anything.

Instead, Hermione found herself following a huffy—and frankly terrifying—witch out into the night, to the patio behind Black House. She was still uncomfortably barefoot, Andy having banished her shoes after their first wretched attempt at a waltz. The rain hadn’t given up either, and Hermione felt as miserable as the chittering chipmunk huddled in the brush, seeking a spot of shelter. The wet bullets kept on, albeit not as rose-trodding as yesterday.

Andromeda tugged her companion along, muttering vague obscenities at vague enemies. She stopped short and Hermione crashed into her back, scrambling to find balance and hide the red in her face. She thought a chuckle, rumbled through Andy’s ribs and she scowled at the woman’s cheek.

“I’m not dancing in the fucking rain.” Hermione snapped, quite done with hiding her bark.

“Watch,” Andy materialized and commanded a sudden hatchet, killing any room for flights of fancy.

The silver flashed and Hermione inherently scooted back and ducked as it cut through the air and thunked into the tree. Wartime vigilance hadn’t left Hermione, not by a long long not-yet.

“Goody, we won’t be needing to lesson you on that,” Andy drawled, her tone like the flip of coin.” The wardbreaker’s curls persisted in the rain, frizzled ringlets that soaked up the petrichor. “Your turn, little witch.” She trudged through mud back to her reluctant protégé’s side, the splatter quite satisfying.

“I’d really rather not,” Hermione gritted out, a sudden stubbornness taking hold.

“I really don’t give a ratshit about your preference and my toes are sore,” Andy hissed. “You’re wielding a Black wand, you’ll damn well learn to control your magic. Watch again.”

Hermione snarled back, silently, her frustrated accord. Satisfied, Andromeda continued, undeterred.

“Ferrum ferro,” the witch hissed, teaching the wandless spell as another axe appeared in her hand. “You can incant if you must, but the magic doesn’t require it. Call one to you.”

“Axe throwing.” It was a rustic and lovely piece of magic, far more intuitive than Hermione was used to. “This is the grand lesson, you’ve decided on?” The Gryffindor’s brow rose.

“No, you did, when you face-planted that last twirl,” Andy smirked.

“You just want to piss off your sister,” Hermione prodded, a slyness slipping out her lips. She licked a raindrop off her lip, fascinated by Andromeda’s warring form in their foggy fete.

“Always,” Andy throated. “But in this case, my focus is you. You’re positively radiant with anger.”

Red-faced, Hermione tried to call the magic verbally, but her voice caught on the Rs of the spell. And so alas, she ended up with a butter knife.

“You have to mean it,” Andy laughed good-naturedly, vanishing the utensil and cupping Hermione’s face with humor. She turned the witch around and pressed up against her back. “Black spells are cheeky if you’re not specific. Use your hand as conduit and let it roll through. Come now, with me.” Hermione trembled as the witch guided their hands together. “Dark magic is neutral. You have to bend it to your will, shape it to your desire.” Her lips brushed Hermione’s ear, the whisper soft and sensational.

“Andy,” Hermione breathed her trepidation, her excitement.

“Feel it build in your hearth and keep the image in your head,” Andromeda continued, embracing the witch and coaxing the magic out of her. “Do you have it?” Hermione nodded, the scent of candle wax, rain, and roses all around. “Good. Now, send it to your fingers and call it home.”

“Ferrum ferro,” Hermione said hoarsely, turning her head to Andy’s mouth…not noticing the finely smithed axe that materialized in her hand. Their lips skimmed and her breath went wild as Andromeda hands found her hair. The witch felt positively decadent and their desire burned red in the pouring rain.

“Throw it,” Andromeda cooed. “Eyes on me. Will it to the tree.” She nipped at Hermione’s neck, her soul fluttering at the pretty sound her teeth engendered. Her student bit back a moan as the magic flowed and Andy bared a grin, hearing the solid sound of success, sinking into the tree. “Again,” she whispered, kissing the witch properly.

~~~~

Many thunks later, with most axes spot on target, Hermione howled out an orgasm stronger than steel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R & R, dearies. Finito.


End file.
